Page 7

CHAPTER

EIGHT

The pub closes, but Eamon doesn't leave. He sits at the far end of the bar, nursing whiskey while his eyes track every shadow, every movement outside the windows. Three days since the warehouse attack, and he's appointed himself my personal guardian.

"Time to go," he says, draining his glass.

"I can walk to my car."

"No." He stands, rolling his shoulders beneath his black henley. "You can't."

I grab my purse, hyperaware of how he moves—predatory grace, coiled tension ready to strike. Outside, he scans the street with military precision before nodding toward his BMW.

"This is insane," I say, sliding into the passenger seat. The space feels intimate, his presence overwhelming in the confined area.

"Insane is letting Moran's crew hunt you down." He starts the engine, and I catch the flash of his holstered gun beneath his jacket. "They don't forget faces."

The city blurs past as he drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh. I force myself to look away from those hands, from the way his jeans stretch across powerful legs.

"Where did you serve?" I ask, noting the anchor tattoo disappearing beneath his sleeve.

His jaw tightens. "What makes you think I served?"

"The way you clear corners. How you carry yourself." I study the ink on his forearm. "Third Battalion Marines, right?"

He glances at me, surprise flickering in those blue eyes. "You know military."

"My father was Navy." Half truth. "Afghanistan?"

"Two tours." His voice goes flat. "Lost half my unit in an ambush. Came home and found out violence makes more sense when it has a purpose."

The raw admission hits something deep in my chest. I know about losing people, about finding purpose in dangerous work.

"I lost someone too," I say before I can stop myself. "Different circumstances, same result."

"Your father?"

"My partner. Car bomb." The truth spills out. "Still wake up thinking I should have seen it coming."

Eamon's hand moves from his thigh to the gear shift, knuckles brushing mine. The contact sends electricity up my arm.

"Survivor guilt's a bitch," he says.

"Yes. It is."

When he parks outside my building, neither of us moves. The car fills with tension, the kind that makes breathing difficult.

"You don't have to babysit me," I say, turning to face him.

Big mistake. His eyes drop to my mouth, then back up. Heat flares between us, unexpected and dangerous.

"Babysit?" His voice drops an octave. "Is that what you think this is?"

"Isn't it?"

He leans closer, and I catch his scent—leather, gunpowder, pure male heat. "Moran's crew is asking questions about the bartender who dropped two of their guys. They want you, Sorcha."

The way he says my name makes my pulse stutter. "So?"

"So you're mine to protect now." His hand moves to my thigh, thumb stroking dangerous circles through my jeans. "And I protect what's mine."

I should pull away. Should maintain professional distance. Instead, I find myself leaning closer.

"Pack a bag," he growls. "You're coming with me."

"Where?"

"Safe house. Isolated. Secure." His thumb presses harder against my leg. "Just you and me."

The promise in his voice makes heat pool low in my belly. This is dangerous territory, but I nod anyway.

"Ten minutes."

He escorts me upstairs, his presence filling my small apartment. I grab clothes while he examines my security setup, moving through my space like he owns it.

"Window access is shit," he says, testing the locks. "Anyone could get in here."

"Good thing I'm leaving then."

When I emerge from the bedroom with my bag, he's standing by the window, silhouetted against the city lights. The sight of him in my space does things to me I can't afford to feel.

"Ready," I say.

The drive takes forty minutes, winding through increasingly isolated roads. Trees close in as civilization disappears. When we finally stop, a cabin sits nestled among pines, lights glowing against the darkness.

"Cozy," I observe, noting the strategic positioning, the hidden cameras.

"Functional." He kills the engine, eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror. "Two bedrooms. Full kitchen. Complete privacy."

Inside, the cabin feels smaller than it looked from outside. Intimate. The fireplace crackles, casting dancing shadows across exposed beams and comfortable furniture.

"Bedroom's down the hall," Eamon says, setting my bag down. "I'll take the couch."

"You're staying?"

"Someone needs to keep you safe." He moves closer, backing me against the kitchen counter. "Question is, who's going to keep you safe from me?"

My breath catches as he braces his hands on either side of me, caging me in. This close, I can see the flecks of gold in his blue eyes, the scar bisecting his left eyebrow.

"Are you threatening me?" I whisper.

"No, sweetheart." His voice turns rough. "I'm warning you."

"About what?"

"About this." His thumb traces my jawline, and I shiver. "About how much I want you despite every instinct telling me you're dangerous."

"I'm not?—"

"Yes, you are." His other hand settles on my waist, thumb stroking the strip of skin where my shirt rides up. "You're the most dangerous thing I've ever wanted."

Heat radiates from his touch, making it hard to think. This is exactly what I can't let happen, but my body doesn't care about mission parameters.

"Eamon—"

"You handled yourself like a professional at that warehouse," he continues, lips close enough to my ear that his breath makes me tremble. "Makes me wonder what other skills you're hiding."

The question hangs between us, loaded with suspicion and desire in equal measure. His hand slides higher on my waist, and I fight the urge to arch into his touch.

"Everyone has hidden skills," I manage.

"Do they?" His thumb brushes the underside of my breast, and I gasp. "Or are you something more than a bartender playing dress-up?"

The accusation should terrify me. Instead, it sends liquid fire through my veins. He suspects me, wants me, and can't decide which impulse to follow.

"What do you think I am?" I challenge.

His eyes darken. "I think you're going to be the death of me."

Before I can respond, his mouth crashes down on mine. The kiss is brutal, claiming, nothing gentle about it. His tongue demands entrance, and I open for him without hesitation.

He tastes like whiskey and danger, like everything I shouldn't want but can't resist. His hands tangle in my hair, tilting my head for deeper access while his body pins me against the counter.

When we break apart, we're both breathing hard.

"This is a mistake," I pant.

"Probably." His forehead rests against mine. "But I'm done pretending I don't want you."

"We can't?—"

"Can't what? Want each other? Too late for that." His hands frame my face. "You're under my protection now, which means you're mine. And I take care of what's mine."

The possessive words should anger me. Instead, they make me ache with need I can't acknowledge.

"Get some sleep," he says, stepping back. "Tomorrow we figure out how to keep you alive."

"And tonight?"

His smile turns predatory. "Tonight I keep watch. Make sure nothing happens to you while you're dreaming."

"What if I can't sleep?"

"Then I'll have a problem." His eyes burn into mine. "Because the only thing standing between us right now is that bedroom door. And my self-control isn't what it used to be."

The threat hangs in the air as I grab my bag and retreat to the bedroom. Through the thin walls, I hear him moving around, settling in for a long night of keeping watch.

I lie in the unfamiliar bed, hyperaware of his presence just yards away. Every sound makes my pulse race. Every creak of the floorboards reminds me that only a door separates us.

My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number: Enjoying your new accommodations?

Ice floods my veins. Someone knows where I am. Someone is watching.

I check the locks, peer through the curtains, see nothing but darkness and trees. But the message proves what I suspected—this safe house is anything but safe.

And the man protecting me might be the greatest danger of all.